


On Intentional Attractions

by rowofstars



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Slight dubcon that is later resolved.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2018-04-18 00:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the subject of intentional attractions: there are none.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Intentional Attractions

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://lillibetm3.livejournal.com/profile)[lillibetm3](http://lillibetm3.livejournal.com/) on the occasion of her birthday, who is owed this and so much more. I sort of tried to follow your prompt, but I'm sorry. I started this story ages ago for you and never finished it, but here it is finally. Thank you to [](http://stillxmyxheart.livejournal.com/profile)[stillxmyxheart](http://stillxmyxheart.livejournal.com/) for her beta efforts. Someday I promise to learn to comma. ;) WHOA. That is a seriously evil word count. Lilli must have been extra naughty this year. ;)

She storms through the TARDIS door, flinging it aside, and letting it slam shut behind her. She’s angry – no, she’s furious, at the Doctor and his behavior, seething with enmity at the ridicule she’s endured this evening.

The lights in the console room dim and she can feel the comforting hum of the TARDIS pushing at her mind in careful waves. She’s having none of it though, and glares up at the glowing time rotor like she’s seen him do a thousand times.

“Not in the mood,” she snaps, stomping around the side of the console and rattling the floor grating as loud as possible.

Immediately the gentle prods of the ships’ sentience recede. She knows she could have just thought it, let the idea run through her head and the TARDIS would have understood, but her rage demands anything but silence. She wants to yell, to scream, to curse, but most of all to give the Doctor a good slap.

She flops roughly on the pilot’s seat, folding her arms around herself, and trying not to look down at the thin red lines marring her forearms. The forest was so dense, the branches and brambles like whips against her fair skin as they ran, but she never slowed, never let go. After it was all over, the Doctor had insisted she sit still and let him heal the worst ones, but the ones left would heal on their own in a couple of days, and she was tired of the sterile smell of the infirmary.

She kicks her legs and looks down at her dress, hanging almost to the floor. It should have been a lovely formal banquet, the sort they got sometimes when the locals were particularly enamored with their world saving efforts. It was one of those silly things, of course, impending annihilation, angry goddess, an ice palace on top of a craggy mountain, evil haunted forest...

 _Blah, blah,_ she thought, and waved her hand in air at nothing before running it over the loose wisps of hair on her forehead.

In the end, the whole thing had been proclaimed a miracle, the Doctor exalted, and the Empress called for a great feast.

They had been making such progress, she’d thought. Just a couple of weeks ago they’d been trapped in Downing Street. He could have blown up the whole building. She even told him to do it, but then he looked straight at her and something changed, something she could feel. She thought they both cared for each other, that it meant something, and she’d packed up her life without another thought.

If she’s really honest with herself it goes beyond caring, at least for her. She’s hopelessly in love with him, ears and all. His flirting certainly doesn’t help matters much, especially when he’s so shameless about it, all big grins and heated looks. Sometimes it feels so intense she has to steal away to her room and take matters into her own hands, biting her lip to keep from saying his name, believing that if she does he’ll somehow know.

She thought his confession, his ‘I could save the world and lose you’ meant that he shared her feelings.

What a fool she feels like now.

“Who the hell does he think he is?” she yells to no one. “Bloody, arrogant Time Lord.”

“I heard that,” replies a familiar voice with a slightly northern accent.

He stands on the ramp, in jeans and his leather jacket, arms folded customarily over his chest and his usual stern expression in place. She realizes she was so angry she didn’t even hear him enter. He’s frowning at her for leaving the party and making a scene, but she’s not in any mood to be lectured by him after what he’s done.

She shoots her best glare back at him, and his stance falters just a bit. He isn’t prepared for her to actually be this mad, or for it to be directed entirely at him. Despite that, he still doesn’t understand what the big deal is with a little joking and good natured ribbing. The meal had been fantastic, the conversation pleasant, and so what if all the inhabitants look like giant lizards?

She remains silent but keeps her stare fixed squarely on the Doctor. His arms fall to his sides and he strides up the ramp to lean against the console across from her. He’d tried to keep her from running off, but she had been too upset and unreasonable.

“So what was all that about?” he asks. He knows it sounds like scolding, but she’s being ridiculous about the whole thing.

She springs to her feet and, looking him straight in the eye, snaps, “What do you _think_ it was about?”

The she stalks off towards the door out of the console room, not wanting to be around him when she’s this worked up, risking saying something she’ll regret later. All she wants right now is to be out of this dress and into a hot bath where she can soak the memories out of her mind and have a good cry.

He reaches out to stop her from leaving, but she steps to the side to get away from him. In the process, she snags the hem of her dress on the edge of the grating and stumbles.

“Careful, or you’re going to tear it.”

He sounds like a parent admonishing a child.

“I don’t care,” she says, yanking the dress free and continuing out of the room.

She’s grateful there was no tearing sound though, since she really does like this dress, or at least she did until she was insulted in it. It’s long, clingy in all the right places, dips low in the back and just teasingly perfect in the front. She loves the way it wraps around her hips, overlapping on the left side to allow for a hint of a leg to show when she walks.

When she found it in the wardrobe weeks ago, it was immediately relocated to her closet in the hopes she would have an occasion to wear it. All the times she had scoured that particular aisle for clothes, and not once had she noticed it, yet at that moment there it was, practically jumping off the rack. She wonders if the TARDIS was being extra nice and trying to make up for the Doctor being a prat the day before.

The poor ship seems to always be making up for its owner.

She’s pounding the floor as much as the delicate heels she’s wearing will allow. They hurt her feet after hours of wear, but she doesn’t mind if it gets the point across that he is not under any circumstances to follow her.

Which, of course, he does.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She makes it halfway down the corridor to her bedroom before the Doctor catches up.

Astonished at her behavior, he takes a deep breath and composes himself before speaking.

“Rose, what’s going on with you? We were enjoying a perfectly nice dinner, and then you have to go and run off –”

She halts and slowly turns to face him, eyes narrowing, face flushed in anger. He stands firm.

“What’s going on with _me_? You think this is _my_ fault?” she asks, shocked.

He keeps his voice level and calm. “You offended the Empress by storming out of the celebration. She was holding it in our honor!”

“No,” she shouts. “Not _our_ honor. _Yours._ It’s always about you.”

She stabs his chest with a manicured nail to punctuate her last statement. His face screws up in confusion as he rubs at the spot she poked so roughly.

“You’re the big hero of the universe, aren’t you? Except you just sat there while a whole room full of – of lizard people made fun of me!”

She turns back towards the empty hallway so he won’t see her start to lose all her remaining control. Her emotions are a mix of anger and hurt, but she doesn’t know which to feel more. One thing is certain, however, she will not let herself cry in front of him. He might think she’s some stupid ape, but she will not be a sobbing, weak, stupid ape.

“Oh, Rose,” he sighs. His tone is soft, and for a moment her anger subsides, thinking he might be truly repentant. “They were just making jokes. They weren’t trying to hurt you.”

He takes a small step forward and reaches for her, when she spins around and knocks his hand away. His eyes go wide in surprise.

“Jokes?” she asks. “I didn’t know my face was the punch line to a joke!”

“It – it’s not,” he stammers.

She huffs. “They made fun of the way I look, Doctor. The Empress herself called me a poor, ugly child! How exactly was I supposed to take that?”

His eyebrows shoot to the middle of his forehead, and his mouth hangs open in astonishment. She is taking this very personally indeed, he thinks.

“Rose, the Empress, and every other female on this planet, has a giant horn growing out of their foreheads, and shiny green scales all over their backs! It’s safe to say their idea of beauty is a bit off from most humans.”

“But you didn’t –,” Her voice falters for a second as the emotions she’s been holding at bay threaten to well over.

His face falls as he sees the hurt in her eyes. He was just laughing and smiling to be nice like he always does at these sorts of official functions. This species had never encountered visitors from other worlds before, and half the males in the room were eyeing Rose, finding her smooth skin and soft features intriguing. They were lucky he was a in a good mood, and that all he did was sit next to her and keep a protective arm on the back of her chair. The females, on the other hand, looked at her with obvious distaste. Rose was not attractive by their standards, and they wanted nothing to do with her.

Truthfully, he couldn’t wait to leave, but Rose couldn’t, and didn’t, know that. He hates seeing her so upset, and knowing that he’s the reason makes it that much worse. He reaches for her again, but this time when she tries to shrug him off, he catches her wrist and pulls her to him.

She goes hesitantly, letting him wrap his arms around her, hugging her close, but she remains stiff, holding up her hands and keeping them between their bodies. This is not something she will let him fix so easily, but his proximity, as always, is having an effect on her.

He feels fantastic, all hard muscle and broad angles. She feels a tingle travel down her spine when his arms tighten and press her against his chest. It’s all she can do not to make some obscene noise.

She’s sure he has no idea that the little noises she does make when they hug are from all the unresolved sexual tension she’s carrying around, practically radiating off of her, and not from the way he sometimes squeezes her a little too tight. He always looks so tough and brooding on the outside. When she’s watching him work, when he doesn’t know she’s watching and she keeps to the shadows of the corridor, the interior lights dimmed while she’s supposed to be sleeping, there’s a melancholy about him. It serves him well when it comes to dealing with enemies, but she knows better.

She sighs. His jacket is warm and his jumper is soft against her cheek. His twin hearts thump rhythmically under her palms, matching the burgeoning throb between her legs.

Taking hold of her anger again, she pushes with both hands.

He feels her resistance and lets his arm fall away as she quickly steps back, her arms folding around herself.

With a heavy sigh, she slumps against the wall, squeezing her eyes shut and letting her head sag forward. He stands in front of her, the solid toes of his boots nearly touching the tips of her toes where they poke through the open toes of her high heels. He sighs too, and looks down, studying their contrasting footwear a moment before speaking.

“I didn’t what, Rose? Tell them they were wrong?”

He places a finger under her chin and gently lifts her head, making her look at him. He cringes inwardly when he sees how hard she’s working to hold it all in.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “Not every species finds humans attractive.”

So that’s it then, she thinks.

This is his not so subtle way of saying he doesn’t find her attractive. That Time Lords aren’t into humans that way. That this, whatever this is between them, isn’t going to happen.

She really is a fool.

“Well then,” she says, dipping her head for second before looking up at him again, the venom in her voice growing with each word. “I guess I know where I stand. You could have picked an easier way to tell me, you know, _Doctor_.”

She practically spits his name at him, and he watches her mouth set in a hard line, her eyes glaring up at him, dark and swirling with emotion. The realization slowly comes over him. She thinks he’s talking about himself. She wanted him to object because then it might mean he finds her attractive. It might mean he wants her.

And, _oh_ , he does.

He has almost every minute of every day. Almost since the he met her. There’s been something there from the start, and he’s certain it’s written all over his face. Every time he looks at her he can’t help but smile, and sometimes, when she is close enough, he can feel the heat radiating off her body. When she brushes against him, it takes every ounce of control he has not to become aroused. He’s been hard around her so many times he’s begun to think that she doesn’t care.

Certainly after that mess back on Earth, the Slitheen, the rather fantastic destruction of government property, it has to be clear he feels something for her.

Sometimes, in what passes for the evening hours on the TARDIS, after she has gone to bed, he’ll even dare to admit that he loves her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He takes a deep breath, preparing to grovel until he’s absolved, and picks up the unmistakable scent of human female pheromones.

He had thought himself an idiot, a nine hundred year old twit, for thinking she’d be interested in him.

Yet it seems maybe she is.

He stares down at the press of her lips, at the fury in her eyes, golden sparks flashing against their usual deep brown. The heels she wears brings her up closer to his height, but just low enough that he can look down and let his eyes roam over her once, twice. The long blue dress she found looks amazing on her, and the way she’s curled her hair and pulled it up exposes a tempting path of creamy skin from her chest all the way up to her ears.

Her breathing is steady and deep as she tries to control the turbulence inside her, waiting for him to say something more or walk away.

He watches her chest rise and fall, up and down, and another realization comes to him. He’s never really noticed it before now, but Rose Tyler is beautiful when she’s angry.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Her arms unfold and drop to her sides as she pushes back to stand up straight against the wall.

He’s staring at her. He’s just standing there and staring at her, his mere presence affecting her. Her eyes are level with his chest and she can smell him, leather and spice and something that always reminds her of home, of the TARDIS that’s become her home. She shifts her gaze up, wandering over his torso, his shoulders, and meets his stare head on.

His eyes have turned dark, almost black, but twinkling ever so slightly.

Heat pools in her belly, even as she tries to swallow the lump in her throat. She feels like he’s undressing her with his eyes, and after the dressing down she’d given him, he still has the audacity to stand there and throw intense, passionate looks at her, taunting her with what he must know she wants, yet he won’t give.  
Pushing off the wall, she pivots in the direction of her room, and takes barely half a step before a leather clad arm jumps up in front of her, and his hand slams flat against the wall, effectively blocking her escape. She takes a quick step backwards, intending to duck and spin around him when another arm comes up behind her.  
Startled, she wobbles on the narrow rubber tips of her shoes, nearly falling and ending up right back where she started, back pressed to the wall. His hands are positioned on either side of her arms, trapping her.

She takes a slow, deep breath, stares him dead in the eyes and says one word. “Move.”

It’s then that the Doctor makes another discovery. Rose Tyler is also quite scary when she’s angry.

He almost gives in, but with every breath he draws more of her scent into him. It snakes through his body, coming to rest in the pleasure center of his brain. Every sense he has is on high alert, aching and wanting for the gorgeous creature he has pinned against the wall.

“Doctor,” she warns.

His lips twitch at a smile.

“I said _move_.”

She swallows and watches as his eyes follow the flexing of the muscles of her throat.

He ignores her command and instead of moving away, he takes a small step closer, spreading his legs over her feet. His arms bend a bit, and his hands slide up the wall to stop on either side of her head. He hasn’t said anything, just stares her down, practically leering at her.

Then, curiously, he smiles. She shivers.

It’s not his usual ear to ear manic grin, or is it the soft, sly curve of his lips that he reserves just for her when she’s being cheeky or clever, or both. This is dark, feral, and it scares her as much as it thrills her. She wants to run, but he’s using his body to keep her in place, though if he wasn’t she’s not sure she could bring herself to move.

When he finally speaks, it’s calm and low. “Rose, do you really think you aren’t beautiful?”

His question catches her by surprise.

“What?” She blinks and shakes her head, causing some of the carefully pinned curls on her head to fall free, brushing her cheeks and shoulders.

“Because I do,” he adds. "And I want you."

Stunned, she closes her eyes and tries to process what is happening. After all she’s been through today, after all he’s put her through, now he wants to be all passionate and flattering. He’s finally making a move like she’s always wanted, and yet she’s still _angry._

She’s not letting him in so easily.

“I think you feel the same,” he says.

There is a certainty to his words that annoys her. She opens her eyes and fixes him with another stare, somewhere between lust and anger. He steps closer again, inching his knee between hers so that she has to shift her feet apart. As her thighs separate, she feels the unmistakable flood of arousal.

“Do you, Rose?” he asks, though from the tone of his voice it sounds less like a question and more like a foregone conclusion.

Her response is immediate and strong. “No.”

“No?”

His eyebrow quirks a bit and a low, rumbling chuckle emerges from within him. “So you don’t want me then?”

She swallows again. “I –”

Her resolve is wavering, but she is not about to offer herself. He’s going to have to come and get what he wants. She licks her lips, and his eyes dart to her mouth and then back to meet her eyes before his hands leave the wall, finding new purchase at her waist.

The chill of his fingertips through the thin material raising goose bumps on her skin as they circle her body. He takes hold of her dress on either side of her hips and leans in close, lips poised next to her ear as he speaks.

“If I slide this dress up these gorgeous legs of yours,” he begins, slowly gathering the fabric in his fingers, skimming it over her legs as it rises, “you won’t be wet? And wanting? For me?”

The blue silk teases as he pulls it higher and higher. She says his name and it’s desperate, pleading, anxious, her hips pushing into his touch.

It’s all the encouragement he needs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

With the skirt bunched at her waist in his left hand, his eyes wander, catching a glimpse of black between her legs, a small scrap of fabric his only remaining barrier.  
Running the back of his right hand along the inside of her thigh, he can feel the muscles tense as he strokes up and down. The heat is incredible. He knew his body temperature was much lower than hers but she feels like she’s on fire in comparison.

Her breathing is ragged and heavy, her head tilts back against the wall, but she still stares him down, eyes daring him to keep going. Closing his hand in a loose fist he rubs her sensitive mound with a knuckle, feeling the moisture seep through the thin material onto his skin. He groans at how wet and ready she is, how wet she is for him.

She turns her face away and bites her lip when he presses against her side. She can feel him, long and hard and trapped behind denim as his hand cups her roughly. A single finger strokes back and forth over the smooth satin of her knickers, tracing the outline of her soft folds, and then up and over and around her clit, skimming the little nub with light, frustrating touches. She tries to push into his hand, to increase the friction and pressure, but he has her hips held firmly.

He pulls his hand away a moment later, smiling devilishly as the sticky wetness he sampled catches in the light.

“Doesn’t feel like no to me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Her legs tremble, making her grateful for the solid presence of the wall behind her. She searches in vain for her earlier anger, for the feelings of humiliation. It’s hard for her to keep telling herself that he must not want her when even harder evidence is pressing in opposition against her thigh. She fights for the will power to push him away, but all she really wants is more of his clever fingers between her legs.

His hand drifts to his lips, tongue darting out briefly to swipe at the back of it, amused as her eyes shamelessly watch every movement. He thinks she might be the best thing he’s ever tasted and he can’t wait to sample the rest, starting with that lovely mouth of hers.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She’s unprepared for the sudden, demanding press of his lips, the possessive way his hand threads in her hair, fingers still damp from touching her. His stance shifts to press her fully against the wall, leaving no further doubt of his intentions. Her temper flares as his tongue pushes into her mouth like it has every right to be there, and her hands that had been clenched and dormant at her sides, rise up to shove against his chest.

It only makes him tighten his grip, tugging her hair, and in another beat she relents, her earlier fury subsiding into lust. Her body feels like it’s burning on the inside, melting all semblance of her control. Her intimate muscles flex, clench around nothing, empty and desperate, wanting his fingers, his cock, anything as long as it’s him. One hand fists in his jumper as the other curls around the back of his neck, trying to pull him closer, swallowing his moan as her tongue strokes over the sharp edge of his teeth.

She tastes like the wine they had with dinner, like the chocolate biscuits they keep in the cupboard over the sink, and something sweetly Rose. It reminds him of how innocent and sweet he’d once thought her to be, though the way she is pushing herself up on her toes, grinding herself against him, she seems anything but. His mind is swimming in her, pheromones and chemicals running rampant, scandalous thoughts of all the ways he knows he shouldn’t want to have her, but does, pushing their way to the front.

Maybe by the time they make it to a proper bed he’ll have decided.

He pulls back, breaking the kiss, and carefully extricates his fingers from her hair. He nips gently at her swollen lips, and a small pout forms as her rich brown eyes flutter open. In them he finds a heady mix of lust and fear and lingering anger. It brings out his baser instincts, the buried desire to stake his claim, to know that she trusts him, with her body, her pleasure, her heart too if she’ll give it to him.

“Rose –” he starts and then hesitates, knowing he’s crossed about fifty lines so far, pushed her into a situation that maybe she’s not ready for, but he’s never been able to help himself when it comes to her. “I’m –”

“Shut up,” she interrupts, letting any lingering annoyance at him sharpen her tone. “If you say you’re sorry, you really will be later.”

He wants to laugh, but there’s far more pressing matters at hand.

Achingly slow, he guides her hand from his chest to her hip, where the folds of her dress are still bunched. He curls her fingers around the material in a silent command, which she readily obeys.

The look in his eyes is enough to let her know what he wants, and she holds her dress up as he shrugs out of his jacket, letting it fall behind him. She feels a bit obscene, holding up her skirt and spreading herself for him, but she’s wanted it for so long, loved him for so long, that she’s not about to be ashamed.

The only thing louder than the pounding of her heart is the dull thud when he sinks to his knees in front of her.

He looks up at her, wanting to make sure this is what she wants too, even if it kills him to stop and walk away. She licks her lips again and nods.

Large hands skim over her hips as he breathes her in, wondering how many times he had ignored that very scent, telling himself it was his imagination, or worse that it wasn’t thoughts of him that produced it.

He blows a cool breath over her damp knickers, delighting in the squeaky little noise she makes, and thinks maybe he can make her scream.

Which his hands holding her legs steady, he runs his tongue firmly over her thinly covered sex, and she cries out at the sudden jolt of pleasure that rips through her, hips pitching forward desperately. He sits back on his heels, rubbing his thumbs in the creases where her hips meet her legs, so close to where she wants him. She squirms when he creeps higher, teases the edge of the satin just under her navel. He can’t stop now; she can’t let him pull away and leave her in this state or she might go mad.

Maybe she already was for letting it go this far.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Doctor,” she says, voice heavy, “ _Please_.”

She hears herself begging, feels the brush of his cheek on the inside of her thigh as he teases her with more cool short puffs of air over her center. She doesn’t care because at this moment she’s willing to say or do whatever it takes to get his wicked mouth back where she wants it.

He imagines all the ways he might hear his name fall from her lips tonight as he tugs her knickers down her legs. He traces the edge of her with a finger, bare and glistening with her need for him, watches as her whole body shivers. He slips easily between her folds and smirks, drawing his finger up her slit, passing slowly over her opening without dipping inside, and then dragging the wetness he finds there over her clit. Back and forth he moves, and she mewls in frustration.

Finally, he leans forward, replacing his hand with his tongue, retracing the same path over her quivering flesh. When he nips at her, she bucks against his mouth and slides her free hand over his short hair. The graze of her nails on his scalp drags a growl from him, primal and more desperate than he’d like, an admission of how much he wants her too, how much he needs her.

A depraved voice inside him urges him to stand up, wrap himself in her legs and take her right here against the wall, but he wars with it, reigns in his control.  
He slips a finger inside her once, then twice before retreating, and just as she is about to protest, a second finger joins the first. They push their way in, stroke and fill her while his tongue draws impossible patterns over and around her sensitive nub. She squeaks out wanton, unintelligible noises, hand gripping the back of his head.

It grounds her, solidifies that this isn’t just another dream or her own sinful hand.

He hears her breaths turn to gasps, feels her rapid pulse from the inside, and knows she’s right there on the edge. He holds her there for a moment, slows his assault to short, quiet strokes, brushing her with his lips. Her head rolls to the side, the spring in her womb coiling tighter with every pump and twist of his fingers. She tries to pull his mouth closer, harder, the way she needs it.

Then as suddenly as he stopped, he pushes three fingers inside her, sucks her clit between his lips, and a thousand lights flash behind her eyelids. She feels like she’s falling and her body trembles, clenching tight around his fingers.

He supports her as best he can from his kneeling position, marveling at the heat of her, the light airy exhale of his name. The grip she had maintained on her dress is lost and it falls against the side of his face, draping over his head. After another few seconds she gives up the fight with gravity and falls into his lap, her head coming to rest on his shoulder.

His arms go around her immediately, and he tips her head up, caressing her cheek with a thumb. He looks at her through the remains of her carefully constructed hairdo, which has now fallen loose around her face in waves. Makeup once precisely, though a little heavily, applied is mussed around her eyes and puffy, well kissed mouth. She smells like sweat and sex and there’s a pile of wrinkled silk between them, but he thinks she’s never looked more beautiful.

She blinks, the daze of orgasm subsiding, and a scary reality settling in its place.

The Doctor has just given her one of the best orgasms of her life, in a dimly lit hallway of the TARDIS, and now she’s waiting for the inevitable rejection. The corner of his mouth curves though, and she finds only adoration and a dark tinge of lust in his eyes.

Smiling back at him, she shifts and straddles his lap, pressing herself hard against his erection, and is rewarded with another low groan.

He swallows thickly, feeling her hand drag down over his shirt, stopping at the waistband of his jeans. A lone fingertip dips over the edge as the flat of her palm massages his straining cock with the most delicious pressure. His hands float down her ribcage, the edge of her breasts, and rest at her hips, pulling her against him. He wants to lose control, to lose himself in her and make her cry out to all the deities he doesn’t believe in.

She watches his eyes roll back, and steals the opportunity to run her tongue up the side of his lean neck. She’s fantasized more than once about the place where his neck meets the sharp angle of his jaw, and she isn’t disappointed with his reaction as her teeth meet the real thing.

Her lips skip up and over the shell of his ear as she whispers, “Your place or mine?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Mine,” he growls, and she’s not sure if he means his room or her.

She smirks and pushes to her feet, kicking her shoes off so he can take her hand and pull her along without stumbling.

When they reach the door to his room he stops and pushes her against it, kisses her roughly as his hands squeeze her arse. She wonders if that’s something he’s always wanted to do, and pushes her hips against his, arching her back to press against him.

He breaks the kiss, dragging his teeth over her bottom lip, and opens the door, letting her enter first.

She takes a moment to look the room over as he turns to shut the door again, but then his hands are back in her hair, her fingers are pulling anxiously at his jumper, and his bed is pressing against the back of her knees.

Their clothes are a minor inconvenience at best, but he takes his time, sliding the straps off her shoulders, watching the silk slide down and over her breasts and then following it with his hands and mouth.

Her nails drag over the back of his neck, his tongue slides against hers and into her mouth again as his thumb rolls over her nipple. She’s whimpering, hips jerking into his, vaguely aware of her dress falling the rest of the way down to the floor. Her hands work at his jeans, fumbling with the button and tugging at the zip before he’s finally pushing her back, easing her down to the bed.

He’s over her, catching the tail end of her smile, and it’s the most beautiful thing to him, never mind that she’s naked; she’s happy, or at least he thinks so. He tries not to think about the last time he did this, or wonder when the last time she did. He doesn’t want to think about other men, or anyone who might have come before him; he’s selfish and he wants this moment to be his.

She leans up and kisses him, deeply, arching into him with her hand wrapping around the back of his neck, and she can feel him start to smile.

He has to pull away, and when he looks down her eyes are too bright, too large, and he half expects some kind of Rose smile to appear, wide and toothy, her pink lips and tongue taunting him as they have from the beginning. But she’s serious, watching him, waiting for him.

“Rose,” he says, a little breathless.

She licks her lips, lets her teeth linger over her them, and he swallows. Her hand softly, slowly, wraps around his length, drawing up to the head and then down again. He groans and lets his head drop, knowing that whatever plan he had for taking this slow is all but gone.

She smirks when his eyes close, grins when his breath comes out shaky and rushed. She’s always wondered if he’d be different, alien or something, and well, he is that, but it’s not what makes him different. She loves him, in a way she never thought she would or could love someone else, and he’s changed her, is changing her, into someone she never thought she could be, into someone who saves the world.

She rather likes that.

“Rose – I can’t –”

She stops the movement of her hand and raises it to his cheek. He opens his eyes her breath catches, seeing the depth of what he’s been holding back.

“We’ll go slow next time,” she says, lifting an eyebrow, and _oh_ , he thinks next time sounds _fantastic_.

He sinks into her slowly, and she meets his eyes as he moves one hand to her hip, the other bracing himself above her. His fingers dig into her skin, and she makes a choking noise, tipping her pelvis up to meet him.

He stops once he’s all the way in and exhales. Her thighs tighten around his as he pauses, and he shifts to his elbow, lowering the weight of his body to hers. She sighs at the cool, soft feel of his skin, so different from what she’s used to, so much like what she imagined.

He moves in a fast, deep motion, flexes his hips, pushing himself harder into her, and she doesn’t protest, just makes this soft sound in her throat. He sets his teeth against the skin there, kisses and sucks, bites her to mark her as his while her nails scratch lines down his back in her own method of claiming.

It’s good. No, it’s great, it’s fantastic, it’s wonderful, and she’s right there but she needs a little extra push. She lifts her hips up, meeting him halfway as one hand skims down between their bodies. She’s just about to touch herself, give herself that little bit more, when he whispers in her ear.

“Let me.”

“Yeah,” she purrs, pulls her hand away, and his fingers hit just the right spot and keep rubbing, slow firm circles.

Her eyes close when she comes, and he watches the way her face tenses, feels her body under him and around him, so warm, so wet, so perfect, squeezing him like the most exquisite torture. She makes another noise that might have been his name, but her hips are still moving and so is he, slower now, until she tightens around him one last time and it’s all he needs to come too.

He buries his face against her neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and sex and Rose, which is possibly the best thing he’s ever smelled in his very long life. Another moment and he lets go, rolls to side and pulls her with him. She sighs and closes her eyes, a flutter of lashes that he can feel against his chest. He strokes her hair and relaxes against the bed.

He swallows, wondering if he should say it or not, the words he’s feeling, has felt for some time. He tilts his head and looks down at her, lifts his hand to brush back a curl of hair that’s fallen over her cheek.

She sighs, eyes still closed, and he smiles.

 _Next time_ , he thinks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning, he’s still there.

She wakes up with her legs tangled between his, his hand splayed over her bare stomach, and smiles. Her eyes are sleepy, but bright, and he grins at her from across the pillow.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a minute. “For last night.” She raises an eyebrow and rolls onto her side.

“Not for that,” he adds, quickly.

She shrugs a little. “It’s okay.”

He frowns. “It’s not.”

Shaking her head, she takes his hand and studies it, sliding her fingers between his like she’s done so many times.

“Rose,” he says softly, and she looks up. “You are beautiful.”

She smiles. “Even when I’m angry at you?”

A slow grin spreads over his face. “Oh, especially then.”

She laughs and pushes his shoulder. He rolls onto his back and she moves to straddle his hips, bending down to kiss him.

It is, apparently, next time.  



End file.
